


What Happens in Hell...

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Cliche, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hotel Sex, PWP, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7527025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prentiss is pretty sure if the seedy motel Rossi's paid for gets them murdered, she's going to follow him to Hell just to kick his ass about it. As it turns out, they’ve already found Hell, and it’s got shag carpeting, orange walls and one bed.</p>
<p>Damn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens in Hell...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greeneyedconstellations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeneyedconstellations/gifts).



> On the bright side, if they die here, at least the team can add ‘seedy hotels’ to their collective ‘nope’ list.

“What the fuck is this,” Prentiss says, her voice deadpan as she slams the SUV door shut hard enough that Rossi can hear the metal groan even over the thunderous crash of the rain. She’s a blurred shape through the thick rainfall, and right now they _should_ be bolting to safety, but they’re so drenched it hardly fucking matters anyway. “What the _fuck_ is this.”

“This,” Rossi says, grabbing his go-bag and bolting for the dubious shelter of the listing porch, “is what happens when someone doesn’t listen to their superiors about taking a different route. One that avoids Hurricane Katrina two-point-fucking-oh.”

His shoes—his goddamn expensive shoes—squelch wetly on the wood, the surface sinking alarmingly under him. Barely, over the sound of the rain somehow picking up, he hears Prentiss come to a skidding stop behind him, spluttering and cursing in several different languages. He’d never tell her so, but some small part of him that isn’t soaked and currently shrivelling into a sad frozen ball of sad _likes_ listening to her curse in different languages. It’s also, inconveniently, the part that Hotch has, at more flippant times of their friendship, threatened to remove if it results in one more phone call from HR.

Prentiss turns a sharp glare on him from under bangs that are plastered to her forehead. There’s a dangerous kind of fury in her eyes that suggests he cease any plans of saying ‘I told you so’ at any point tonight, otherwise she’ll do Hotch’s job for him and remove those particular parts. He smiles back innocently, dropping his bag and wincing at the wet slapping sound it makes—it doesn’t bode well for the likelihood of being warm and dry again at any point tonight—and juggling with a hotel key that looks like it’s seen far too many hands in the past, none of them gentle.

“If we get murdered here,” Prentiss says coolly, hooking her own go-bag over her shoulder and wringing her hair out with hands that shake despite her efforts to appear collected, “I’m going to follow you to Hell and kick your ass.”

There’s just no respect. No goddamn respect from anyone anymore.

Any retort he has is stolen by the wind shaking the cabin he’s struggling to get into, the lights flickering dangerously overhead. He looks up, swallows, and glances back at her with half a mind to suggest perhaps sleeping in the car. They’re fresh off a gruelling case—a serial rapist in Atlanta who’d moved on to carving messages in his victims after cutting their throats—and she looks exhausted. Exhausted, worn, and frozen through, her skin a shade paler than usual and lips a dark bruised purple.

Damn.

“Least it’ll be warm in Hell,” he says in a coy effort to cheer her up, nudging the door open finally and finding that there’s no need for any murdering—they’ve already found Hell and it’s got shag carpeting, orange walls and one bed. “Shit.”

“Oh my god, we’ve stepped into a seventies porno,” she breathes, closing the door behind her and only slightly muffling the shriek of the wind. He swallows. The light flickers again. “What do you think the chances are of this place having a working bathroom?”

Phone in hand, he’s not shocked to find the gloomy _emergency calls only_ message flickering across the screen. “About as high as the chances of the heating working.” When he smacks his palm on the decrepit looking radiator against one wall, his poor shoes leaving a trail of puddling water as he walks over there, it grunts once and wheezes to a stop. There’s a sharp _fuck_ from the bathroom a second after and the sound of a shower curtain being tugged violently along its rail. He just hopes that, wherever they are, Hotch and Reid have managed worse. That is literally the only thing that can save this experience, knowing that they’re suffering just as much.

“Shower’s a nope,” Prentiss says from behind him, her voice uncharacteristically mopey. In all honesty, he actually understands that. The urge to cry is real. A clap of thunder booms and fades and takes the lights with it. They both stare at the ceiling and just _hope_ as a minute of darkness turns to two.

“Well,” he says finally, turning around right as the lights reluctantly turn on again. Prentiss’s mouth twitches. “Dibs on the floor. I don’t even want to _think_ about what’s been on that bed.”

“There’s a couch…” Prentiss trails off when she actually looks at the couch, her eyes widening with a kind of resigned horror. “I can’t believe you paid money for this place. We can sleep in the car. That is _still_ an option…” There’s another howl of wind that rattles the window, following by a barrage of hail slamming against the walls and roof that makes conversation absolutely impossible. It also puts a dampener on any thoughts of sleeping in the car.

It’s then that the true misery of the night sinks in, and Rossi will pay for the fucking jet _himself_ the next time the penny-pinching jagoffs from the budget committee even _think_ about cutting their travel budget. It’s one thing to sleep in a cut-rate Bates’ motel knockoff. It’s _one thing_ to have no hot water, a couch that crackles when you sit on it, and only one bed to share between two co-workers—although he won’t lie that the thought of sharing that bed didn’t cross his mind. He’s only human after all, and she is gorgeous—but it’s completely a-fucking-nother to have one bed in the one cramped shitty hotel room, and absolutely no dry clothes.

“Damn,” he murmurs, dumping his go-bag out onto a section of bathroom floor that looks relatively clean and finding it all soaked completely through from racing through the torrential rain to get inside. “Damn, damn, damn.” Not even a dry pair of briefs, and his teeth are starting to chatter as his drenched outfit cools against his skin. He resorts to wringing them out as best he can and hanging _something_ around the bathroom so at least maybe in the morning he can be dry, folding the rest sadly and replacing them. There’s one shirt, folded tightly and tucked between a plastic folder and his spare shoes, that’s only slightly damp on one corner, and he hefts it thoughtfully in his palm before slinking back out of the bathroom. He calls out before stepping into the main room in case Prentiss is changing, and finds her cross-legged on the floor with the contents of her luggage strewn around her, biting at her nails. Still fully dressed and with a towel that’s just as wet as the rest of her wrapped around her shoulders.

“Here,” he says, tossing her a towel that stinks of bleach and is stiff from being over-washed. There are two in the bathroom, the smallest of comforts, and she catches it with a muttered thanks. “You got anything dry?”

Her return look is tortured, and she eventually tugs a shirt towards herself that only looks partially soaked instead of completely drenched. “This one,” she lies, smiling and ignoring how that smile wobbles. Odd. Out of the whole team, she’s the one he’d least have pegged for letting a little rain set her back.

He crosses the room in two strides and takes the shirt, his stomach twisting with something uncomfortably like guilt when their fingers brush and he notes how cold her skin is. “Liar,” he says, voice low, and looks down at her. There’s a flush to her face. She shrugs, then coughs.

Ah.

“Here.” There’s a long moment as he offers his own dry shirt to her when he can see her arguing with herself over whether to take it or not. “Seriously, Prentiss. Last thing we need is you sick. One thing this shithole has is plenty of blankets; I’ll just sleep in my underwear. Any excuse to take my clothes off, you know me.” The joke falls short, her mouth barely flicking upwards, but she does take the shirt.

“Fine,” she mutters, standing and wincing as cold limbs protest the movement. “But you’re taking the bed then. You’re old. I don’t want to spend all tomorrow listening to how much your back hurts.”

Oh, bullshit he’s taking the bed, and he spends the next ten minutes detailing through the bathroom door as she changes just why that’s not fucking happening. There’s no way he’s losing this argument.

But he does.

“Close your eyes,” she snaps, and he does so, tugging the blankets up over his eyes for good measure as she scurries from the bathroom to the nest of bedding she’s made on the floor. Not that he would look anyway. Prentiss in his shirt and her underwear and very little else? He wouldn’t look.

Honest.

The slight twitch of interest from his dick at the thought of just _what_ that would look like suggests otherwise. He tamps that thought down, although not before allowing it for a moment—the dark blue vivid against her skin and ending suggestively just long enough to cover her ass, unless she moves in which case it… _shut it, Dave, you old perve._

He’s pretty sure if he was to ever to step on Hotch’s toes enough to actually fraternise with a co-worker, Prentiss would be the only one he wouldn’t regret. She’s level-headed enough to keep her cool at work without changing the way they are around each other, saucy enough that he bets she’d keep him on his toes in the bedroom, and attractive enough that he’s not sure he’d turn down the opportunity. Not that he’s thinking about it. He’s not.

Especially not as she says _Okay, I’m covered_ in a husky kind of voice, and he tugs the blanket down feeling hot and silly and a little bit like his skin is on too tight in all the wrong places. Peering at her in the dark, she’s a pale blur on the shag carpeting—at least it’s soft, he guesses—wrapped up to the nose in as many blankets as she’d let him strip from the bed to give to her.

“Okay,” he says, his own voice hoarse, and coughs to clear his throat before whispering, “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

He doesn’t fall asleep, and the thoughts don’t fade.

Damn.

 

* * *

 

He shudders awake from a half-remembered dream of a mouth against his throat and a firm body slipping against his to find himself half-naked in a shitty hotel bed instead of home in his own king sized ensemble. His misery is being narrated by the sound of teeth clattering together hard enough that he’s pretty sure they’re taking permanent damage from it.

“Prentiss?” he says, blinking himself sensible, and the chattering stops and is replaced with the kind of quiet that comes from someone trying really hard not to make a noise. “Oh bullshit, I know you’re awake.”

“I’m not,” comes the sulky reply, and he winces. She sounds cranky. Cranky and miserable, and he’s just enough of an old-fashioned sexist that both of those things kick him right in the masculinity. “Go back to sleep. I’m pretty sure you’ve still got some more snoring to go to outdo the fucking storm.”

Oops.

_This is ridiculous,_ he thinks. “This is ridiculous,” he says out loud, putting a snap of irritation into his voice, a sharp reminder of his command. “Get up here. No point us both being uncomfortable and cold. We’re old enough and ugly enough that we can share a fucking bed to avoid pneumonia without being asses about it.”

“No.”

He’d forgotten how goddamn stubborn she can get when she gets her back up about something. And now she’s cold, overtired, and really, really determined to have it her way. Oh joy, it’s like being married all over again.

Well. Two can play at the childish game. He hadn’t been divorced three times by being mature about these things. “Fine,” he growls, and rolls towards the edge of the bed, wrapping the blanket around him burrito-style. “ _Fine._ Just fine.”

It’s the work of a second to roll off the edge with a thump that she jumps at, sitting upright and letting the blanket slip as though in her shock she’s forgotten about her lack of… attire. It’s dark and gloomy in that room, but not so dark that he can’t pick up the pale curve of her throat and the fact that she has more buttons undone of his button-down than he’s comfortable with trusting himself around. “The hell are you doing, Dave?”

Oh, so he’s _Dave_ now. “Joining you,” he says smugly, inching onto her nest of blankets and turning his back on her before burrowing cheerfully in. “Since you won’t share the bed, neither of us get the bed.”

“You’re being a _child_.”

“Takes one to know one.”

And oh god, they’ve regressed to kindergarten, and he kind of wishes they _do_ just sleep together now because it will be less embarrassing to think back to.

A huff behind him. “Fine,” she mumbles, and turns her own back on his in a rustle of blankets that sounds almost angry. _“Fine.”_

“Fine,” he agrees placidly, and closes his eyes. It’s not so bad down here. Actually, it’s almost comfy.

He’s always slept better after proving a point.

 

* * *

 

The next time he wakes, he’s warm. He’s gloriously warm, still half asleep, and it takes him a concerning amount of time to click to the fact that he’s warm because he’s spooning Emily fucking Prentiss. In his underwear.

With a hard on.

He freezes, his arm tensing around her shoulders, but she’s dead to the world and completely unaware of him pressed against her. He wriggles back, feeling the flush from his face spreading down his chest with a rush, sliding his arm away from her guiltily. The cold that hits him as soon as he’s moved away is sharp enough to take his breath away, and every part of him complains. Including his rapidly shrivelling dick, which is one bonus of being balls-shrinkingly freezing within seconds.

“Oi,” comes a sleepy mumble, and Prentiss tilts her head back slightly, eyes still closed and mouth half slack with sleep. “Get back. Cold.”

“I… uhh…” He trails off. He can’t. She’s warm and soft and inviting and she fucking _smells_ like him in his shirt. He can’t. No man could. Not this particular man anyway. Maybe Hotch, but he’s never had Hotch’s self-control, and doesn’t really covet it anyway. Life is meant to be lived. “Not a great idea, Emily.” He keeps his voice gentle, but her eyes snap open anyway, and they’re not sleepy at all.

“I don’t give a shit what you think, Dave,” she growls, and he swallows around a sudden lump of _you fucked up_ fear that his second wife taught him to know and his third wife cemented within him. “This is absolutely your fault. Get over here, damnit. What was it you said about being old and ugly and adult enough to not be idiots about this?”

So he does. He does, and he wills the over-interested lump of flesh between his legs to _behave damnit_ , which that part takes as permission to do whatever the hell it feels like. They lay in silence for a while, her stiff and awkward in his arms, and him fully focused on not being turned on by the attractive woman pressed against him in her _fucking underwear and little else_ , until he realizes how stupid he’s being and relaxes, just a little. His arm droops, curling more tightly against her, and she makes the softest noise imaginable.

It’s a cross between a sigh and a relieved moan, and he’s instantly hard again and cursing inwardly.

Silence. Tense, worried silence, and the only thing he can hear is the way her breathing has sharpened as she notices—and how could she _not_? He’s not exactly… well, shy about his assets. And this is certainly an asset—although a moment later he notes that her breathing hasn’t exactly just sharpened but also… quickened. When he shifts his arm so it’s wrapped against her chest, he can feel the hammering beat of her heart through his shirt.

If it were anyone else, anyone less important, he’d take both these things as a sign to move forward, but she’s Prentiss and he can’t misread this. Work aside, he’s grown to value her friendship and respect the fuck outta her intelligence and stubborn determination to be her own person. He can’t endanger that for the sake of his overactive libido. But damn. _Damn_ if he’s not thinking about making her make that noise again, or making her make _other_ noises, and just how responsive she’ll be under his hands and his body…

Squeezing his eyes shut with mortification, he whispers, “I’m sorry,” against the back of her neck, and tries to inch his hips backward to give her some space. And he manages until—

“Don’t,” she replies, just as quietly, a catch to her voice. He stops. Watches her eyelashes flicker on the profile of her face as she blinks slowly, takes a shuddering breath, and lifts her own hips slightly, pressing back against him so he’s nestled between the curve of her ass. “Don’t,” she breathes again, and wriggles back, and he’s gone.

She’s gorgeous and he wasn’t imagining it. She _wants_ , and he doesn’t know where to put his hands first now he’s almost certain he has permission. Work be damned, he’s never turned down a willing woman this stunning, and he damn well isn’t going to start at this point of his life.

He settles on sliding his hands along her sides, under her shirt— _his_ shirt—up and up the endless expanse of warm, firm skin until he finds the curve of the sides of her breast with the arm on the top of her, tracing the outline with his fingertips. She shifts under his hands, and he was right, she’s responsive to his every touch and coaxing him on silently using nothing but the way she tenses her body. He’s straining against his briefs, barely holding himself back from rocking his hips hard into the welcoming warmth of her. As he finds her nipple and skims the pad of his thumb over it, she arches back into him with a delightful hiss of longing.

He settles his free hand onto her side, fingers pressing into the junction between her thigh and hip and pressing her back against him with a ragged gasp. She’s writhing and the friction is unbelievably good, grinding against each other like both of them have been waiting forever for just this moment. His briefs are already damp, and he wonders if she’s just as needy between her legs. Just as wanting.

There’s a hand dragging against his underwear now as she twists her torso towards him, eyes dark and mouth swollen from her teeth nipping at it. He stares at her mouth and feels his own slip open, imagining slotting his lips against hers, tasting her, knowing how she breathes against him. The hand scrabbles, nails catching the skin of his hip and leaving narrow points of heat behind them, tugging the elastic of his underwear down. Down, down, and his hips jerk up slightly as his cock springs free, heavy and hot and glistening at the tip. He sees her glance down, sees the pink flash of her tongue over her lips, and almost chokes on a _fuck_ that threatens to slip out at the thoughts that _that_ bring to mind.

She doesn’t say anything. He follows her lead, keeping quiet and slowly drawing both hands across her hips, along the narrow lines of her body, settling her back against him with his cock between her thighs. She tightens her legs around him, her back flush to his chest and her ass perfectly positioned against his body, and he rocks his hips forwards twice, slowly, just to get a feel for what it feels like to slip between her thighs, to be caressed by her skin.

It’s spectacular. He knew it would be.

He closes his eyes and revels in the heat and the soft rasp of his movements against her, before changing the angle of his hips upwards, thrusting up between her legs so his cock is instead sliding against her, learning the shape of her, feeling that she’s just as wet and fucking wanting as he’d expected. Maybe more so. He tenses his ass and slows his hips so he can nestle with the slick fabric of her ruined panties against the top of his now eagerly throbbing dick, her thighs clenching hungrily to either side and the muscles shifting against him. He focuses, on everything. The sharp choke to her every breath now and the way she’s trembling. The insane wetness that coats him despite the material between them. The bunch of her own muscles against his body as she not-so-subtlety tries to control her own body’s reactions to him.

“Jesus, Em,” he groans, pressing his lips against her neck once, twice, before biting down with a rumbling growl that makes her twitch and pant. “You’re so fucking wet. So fucking needy, aren’t you? How long have you wanted this?” He punctuates his sentences with another slow roll of his hips into her, her own movements quickening as she tries, unsuccessfully, to coax him into moving faster. “Wanted me? Wanted _this_?” He presses the head of his cock against her underwear, teasing, right where he’d slip into her were there not the barrier between them. Pushes harder. Hard enough that she can feel a taste of what it’s going to be like when he fucks her, just how good he’s going to be to her. “Answer me.”

Another snap of command. She doesn’t like being bossed around in the field, but hot damn does she respond to it in bed.

“Yes,” she chokes out, and he laughs with a voice that’s dark and deep.

“Yes what? What do you want? What do you need, Emily?”

Her eyes roll around to meet his and she’s frowning, the corners of her pretty mouth turned down into an angry scowl, her chin stubborn. God, he loves that expression on her. He loves it and he wants to brush his lips against it, his fingers, to tease her mouth up into a smile without ruining the determination. He’s always been of the opinion you can’t sleep with a woman, any woman, no matter how little you know her, without loving her just a little. And there’s so much to love about this particular woman, he’s lost. Just for this moment, this night, he’s lost, and he can’t wait to show her that. “Stop dicking around,” she says with a snap, “And hurry the fuck up.”

Oooh spine, and he feels his cock twitch eagerly at this reminder of her bite. “Tell me what you want then,” he wheedles some more, nudging harder against her and seeing her teeth nip at her lips to hold back a sharp retort.

There’s a tug at her underwear and they pull tauter, her eyes flickering down and glazing, just slightly. He feels her rock back, arch, and bring his own hand to her crotch right as her fingers brush the head of his cock, delicate and flickering and _exactly what he wants, fuck._ He wants to press forward so she can reach but he’s already tight against her, wants her to lean down to reach easier but she’s brushing her hand forward and back in a way that suggests she’s gotten tired of waiting for him. He’s pretty sure if they do either of those wants this is going to be over a whole lot sooner than either of them are ready for.

It’s one night in the rain and the cold, and he’s not fooling himself that he’s going to have another crack at this.

“This,” she breathes so quietly he barely hears her, and her fingers dart across his cock once more. “You.”

Never let it be said that he disappoints.

Without a word, because silence feels somehow more sacred, he pulls her panties down just enough that when he pulls his hips back, he can slide his length into the gap between them and slip slowly forward against her. It’s evocative, sneaky, and he feels her breathing hitch at the odd almost-invasiveness of feeling him begin to move against her with nothing between them while her underwear are still almost on. It gives the illusion of haste, of him needing her so much he can’t wait to undress her completely, and it’s not completely an illusion.

And she’s wetter than he’d thought as he brings himself flush with her, the head of his cock pushing slowly between her slippery folds until he finds the wet, hungry heat he’s looking for and pauses. She nods once and he trusts her completely, arching his spine and pushing almost roughly into her with one smooth sweep of his hips, feeling her jolt and cry out with the shock-want of it.

She’s wet, too wet, but still tight and he’s not gentle because she doesn’t want him to be. On the first thrust he bottoms out, his hips grinding against her ass as she lifts her own hips in an implicit invitation for him to take it all, anything he can reach, and he does so impulsively. Pulling back, he almost slips out before shoving forward again, no rhythm to them as they just take from each other whatever the other is willing to give, nothing but the harsh sound of their breathing and the slick sound of their bodies moving together.

She tightens around him. He can feel her muscles fluttering as though trying to draw him in deeper, and he groans _greedy_ with a voice that rumbles from his chest and makes her writhe under him. They’re slipping, messy, and he rolls so he’s on top of her without pulling out, dragging her with him. Straddles her with a leg to either side as she scrambles up onto her knees, one hand splayed against the nest they’d curled in, and he pushes in once more, finally finding his rhythm.

There’s no reason to the noises they’re making anymore; she’s mewling—fucking _mewling_ —in short little bursts on every forward thrust of his hips as the force ripples through her body, and he’s saying anything that comes to mind, rambling, telling her she’s gorgeous, stunning, anything that comes to mind. He’s vocal, he always is, and he needs her to know how good she makes him feel, how much he appreciates that.

“Dave, Dave,” he realizes she’s saying, practically sobbing, and she’s plateaued, caught between the moment of climax and the build-up of it, unable to move either way with just the movement of his cock inside her. “Please, oh god, something more, anything.” She’s so close, so close, he can feel it building in her in the tense cords of her neck and the tight muscles of her lower back when he rests a hand upon her.

“Shh,” he soothes, bending forward, still buried inside her, slowing his hips down so he’s barely moving, just twitching minutely to remind her he’s still there. “Not long. Not long now. I’ll get you there, beautiful. You’re so close. So full. Aren’t you?”

A choked moan that trails into a groan as she sways her own hips against his refusal to move, practically fucking herself on his cock, and goddamn if that isn’t the prettiest thing he’s ever seen when he looks down and admires the sight. “Yes. Yes. Please. I just… I just need… I _need.”_

“To come,” he finishes for her, and pulls her upright so he can kiss her shoulder, still wearing his shirt, her neck, her throat, her chin, pulling her head around to finally, finally find her mouth. “You need to come. I’ve got you.”

And he does. He wraps one arm around her to bring her flush to his body, every part of his chest against her back in a long time of heat and longing, their mouths locked awkwardly together despite the probably painful angle of her neck as he finally learns the taste of her, his other arm slipping around her hips so his clever fingers can trail down and tease at her clit, giving her the more she deserves.

“ _Oh_ ,” she moans at the touch of his hand, and he catches that _oh_ with his mouth and savours it. It trails into a line of _ohs_ as he shifts, moving again inside her in long, slow sweeps that take her apart and push her right off the edge she’s been dancing on.

She comes beautifully.

Her mouth slips open against his, her eyes closing, and he watches her jaw work to remember how to close as her body trembles apart against him. Clenching tightly around his cock, dragging him in deeper, he can feel every part of her shaking against his chest, his hips, his legs, his heart.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

He slows and drags it out, and she opens her eyes and looks at him like a lover.

“Dave,” she whispers, and he’s gone too, hurtling off that edge gleefully after her. “Yes. Oh _yes_. I can feel that. Feel you coming.”

And he is. Pulsing into that hungry neediness of hers, feeling the slick, sloppy, fucking stunning mess around them growing as he adds to it, adds to her. He’s coming inside her, coming against her mouth, kissing frantically and with no thought to the action anymore, no suavity, just a mindless, base need to be with her in this moment.

It builds in a firework burst in his spine and the base of his brain and keeps building until it can’t anymore, slowing into a fast succession of smaller charges, his hips shuddering, slowing, stopping. They silence. Their hearts race. Their breathing is quick, agitated, sharp. Edged with everything they are now. Until it slows too, evens out. He softens inside her, grunts as he shifts, and still he doesn’t let go. The cold returns.

The moment ends.

He kisses her once more, this time with passion, a slow exploration of her mouth with his lips and tongue that makes her breathing whistle with shock at his tenderness. One last reminder that she is loved, this doesn’t make her any less in his eyes. “Thank you,” he says as they break apart and he finally, in a hot, slick rush, slides out of her and shuffles back. She smiles, her eyes glazed and stunned and looking delightfully well-fucked from the pink of her cheeks to the evidence of him glistening on her thighs.

He loves women. He loves sex. He loves _this_ , the moment when it’s all done and he can savour the memory of it with that person. And Emily, he can tell, is one to savour. She won’t push him away to spare herself the embarrassment, or make it something it’s not.

Their fingers tangle together and he tugs her towards the bed. “Come on,” he goads her. “We’ve already defiled each other now. Might as well snuggle a bit.”

“I don’t snuggle,” she says with a snort, using her underwear to clean some of the mess between her legs away before tossing them to the side. He does the same with his own, stripping them off.

She lies. She absolutely snuggles.

They sleep jumbled naked in each other’s arm, and neither notices the rain stop. They’re warm. It’s some kind of contentment.

In the morning, they find each other again.

**Author's Note:**

> **Edited August, 2017.**


End file.
